


working space

by Puella



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Blindfolds, M/M, Painting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puella/pseuds/Puella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>leonardo has a fidgety canvas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	working space

It’s an odd enough sensation without ones eyes covered. Cool and slick and feather-light. The touches are skilled, like touching down onto canvas or wood. He makes a face when the soft hairs of the brush first touch his shoulder, a cross between a frown of discomfort and a twist of the lips in anticipation. He can feel his heart race as the brush lifts, shifts, moves to his throat and draws down slowly along his pulse, strong, nervous. He squirms, brings the line to fall astray from its ultimate goal, wherever that might be—to trace his clavicle? To create a sweeping line that attempts to follow veins beneath skin? Whichever it may be, Leonardo makes a dissatisfied sound.   
  
For a moment he wants to shrink back into the sheets. If there is one thing that might perhaps frustrate Leonardo, it is a fidgeting subject.   
  
“A canvas does not move, Ezio.” the man murmurs from a distance. He can feel a body straddling him on either side, just barely touching his body. He swallows, can feel the paint along his dancing vein in his throat as he lets out a breath. Something smooth and warm brushes against his jawline—thin and finished. It slides to the dip in the center of his lower lip, and Ezio knows the feeling of the end of a paintbrush just barely resting there and tapping once. Twice. Three times. A light reprimand for moving and distorting a perfect line. He feels both remorse for moving so hastily, and yet the reaction could not have been prevented. Paranoia slides into his veins with ease at times like these. Times that are too quiet and too perfect. he is used to clamor, the feeling of being pressed in upon, the smell of blood, not paint, and the feel of hot tile or steel, not smooth sheets and skin and paint. It is Leonardo’s realm and he feels as though he does not belong there, as if he is not meant to lay here. “Bene. That is better… still… remain still…”  
  
He loathes his nakedness at this second, hates the feeling of laying in such soft sheets, fingers twisted in them, soft cloth pressed against his eyes and tied firmly against the back of his head. There’s a sense of vulnerability that makes the blood in his veins seem to pump harder. Being unarmed is a foreign thing to him, saved for baths and sleeping, where he’ll keep a knife at arms length or beneath his pillow anyways. His blades lay in a corner with his armor and his robes. Daggers, sword, pistol. They lie so far away from him and all he wants now is to put them back on, to crawl into a protective skin once worn by his father. He is more comfortable, he feels, in the role of the assassin. Memories of bedroom intimacies escape him more and more, replaced with a knowledge of what a dead body feels like as it slides onto a blade, sinks into you.  
  
“Still yourself, I can see your heart beat,” comes the voice again, disembodied Leonardo feeling as though he is perhaps everywhere and nowhere. Only the faint teasing sensation of warm, worn breeches just barely brushing his hips lets his know that the other is there. A warm palm comes down to rest on his chest, and Ezio, too, can feel how his heart threatens to hammer its way out of his chest and into the others palm. “You are in no danger. It is just you and me…”  
  
+  
  
Leonardo reads him like codices, deciphers him, does not need his eyes to see feelings. Can see them in pulse changes and shifting fingers and a touch of teeth on lip as Ezio worries his scar. It’s a beautiful imperfection, offsets the near-symmetry of the human face and gives him charm that makes Leonardo fill with jealousy as women hang upon his arms. He leans in, hand still feeling his heart, how it thumps with the ferocity of a knock upon a door. His lips brush the scar lightly, they tease it with the smallest of kisses before pulling away again. His heart slows, not completely, but to an agreeable compromise. He will continue, thin brush in his hand with its tip coated in a soft saffron color that makes him smile. He does not particularly care much for exacting some work of art on what he already considers a work in and of itself. Instead, he seeks to map out, to outline and follow shapes.  
  
He traces muscles in the rich, yellow color, makes the other beneath him gasp shortly, when he comes down to where his knee rests, having traced compact and strong thighs. The brush, long-since out of paint, just barely tickles beneath his knee, watches the reaction of man, blinded, twisting slightly. From lines, muscles raise and lower. Stomach tightens, fingers and toes curling in a response to being stimulated at one, singular spot. It enthralls him to watch so closely on a specimen he knows well.   
  
Moving on, he uses blue, a bright, blinding shade that maps him out further. He trails the singular color along his sides, presses in just slightly so that Ezio twists to the side to try and avoid such a pressure. His teeth are catching his lip again and it makes Leonardo laugh.  
  
“I should not have to chase you, stop.” Gruff, but playful all the same.  
  
“You are tickling me!” Ezio complains, though his grip does not loosen in the sheets nor is he making to get up. He remains as Leonardo repeats the process to his other side, flipping the brush around to press against his sides once more with the end of it, bringing him to arch up for a split moment and come down again. Tracing ribs with the very end of the brush causes Ezio to try and press into the sheets, shaking his head firmly. He sees scars, arrows, knife wounds, sword slashes, and he lightly fingers every one of them. He takes one of Ezio’s hands, having to pry fingers from the cloth below. Fingers flex, curl, flex, curl, and Leonardo’s grip is strong as he pulls his hand closer to eye level and runs the very end from the base of his wrist’s pulse up to where his two fingers, ring and middle, meet. There is a callus there, signs of the flesh of his palm having been cut by a wrong move. The singular motion brings Ezio’s entire arm to flex, fingers curling inwards like claws ever so slightly.   
  
He drops his hand unceremoniously, curious and moving downwards to grab at the solid ankle, thumb stroking his Achilles carefully.   
  
“No,” Ezio mumbles, tone firm and his knee bends in a slight jerk to pull his foot away, but Leonardo tugs back. “You are cruel.”  
  
“I am… investigating.”  
  
“You are torturing me.”  
  
“But there is so much to see! It is so very rare that I have live subjects for research.”  
  
“Leave my foot alo—”  
  
He runs the nail of his thumb along the prominent arch in Ezio’s foot, watches as his voice dissipates into something incoherent, a garble of a yelp as his calf moves to deliver a kick, wrenching itself out of Leonardo’s hand in a liquid motion that he barely has time to catch. He ducks the kick just barely, feels how firm calf muscles graze the top of his head. For a moment Ezio stays in that position, allowing Leonardo an unintentional view of how his lower back tenses, sends the muscles out in a chain reaction that as soon as it has come it leaves. Ezio bolts upwards, tearing the blindfold from his eyes to see Leonardo slowly rising from his awkward position on the bed between his legs, eyes wide and lips parted with an excited smile  
  
“Do it again,” is all he says.  
  
Never mind the possibilities of a broken neck or skull.


End file.
